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desperanceQuick quiz for you:
What cooking starts with a hammer and a nail, at half-nine in the morning?
C'rect. First drain your coconut, then split and grate it.
Did I grate my fingers?
Yes, of course I did.
Does Mac like freshly gratedChaz coconut?
Yes, of course he does. Unexpectedly (outrageously, if you're Mac), so does Barry. (Neither of them is quite so keen on fresh turmeric, tho' Mac kinda thought he ought to be.)
I may never have used a hammer so much in the making of a single dish. (There was also crushing the lemongrass, and breaking up the palm suger; and, y'know, I had the hammer to hand, and...)
Also, I may never have triggered quite so many electrical devices in the making of a single dish. There was the spice-grinder, to grind the coriander and cumin and chillies; then there was the food processor, to make a paste of all the toasted coconut and galangal and onion and garlic and turmeric and spices; then there was the accidental triggering of the coffee-grinder as I unplugged the food processor and took it away (oh noes! more coffee!); and now there is the slow cooker, with all of that (except the coffee) and the beef and the coconut milk and the tamarind water (mmm, squeezing tamarind-pulp - I have washed, and my hands still smell lovely).
And that will do its thing all day, while I slave over the proof of Daniel Fox, in the library and very likely thereafter in the pub; and I will come home at the last to my dinner, cooked and ready. Om-nom-nom.
If theclowns cats haven't managed to pilfer it, that is. I foresee scorched noses.
What cooking starts with a hammer and a nail, at half-nine in the morning?
C'rect. First drain your coconut, then split and grate it.
Did I grate my fingers?
Yes, of course I did.
Does Mac like freshly grated
Yes, of course he does. Unexpectedly (outrageously, if you're Mac), so does Barry. (Neither of them is quite so keen on fresh turmeric, tho' Mac kinda thought he ought to be.)
I may never have used a hammer so much in the making of a single dish. (There was also crushing the lemongrass, and breaking up the palm suger; and, y'know, I had the hammer to hand, and...)
Also, I may never have triggered quite so many electrical devices in the making of a single dish. There was the spice-grinder, to grind the coriander and cumin and chillies; then there was the food processor, to make a paste of all the toasted coconut and galangal and onion and garlic and turmeric and spices; then there was the accidental triggering of the coffee-grinder as I unplugged the food processor and took it away (oh noes! more coffee!); and now there is the slow cooker, with all of that (except the coffee) and the beef and the coconut milk and the tamarind water (mmm, squeezing tamarind-pulp - I have washed, and my hands still smell lovely).
And that will do its thing all day, while I slave over the proof of Daniel Fox, in the library and very likely thereafter in the pub; and I will come home at the last to my dinner, cooked and ready. Om-nom-nom.
If the